Warrior, Renewed: Book Two of the Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter One: The Green Fairy

Ealair woke up in an unfamiliar room with head that pounded like a steel drum band and a mouth that felt as though he'd eaten a bag of cotton wool. Not candy floss, but actual cotton wool, which had then soaked up all the moisture from his tongue and left it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He guessed that meant he'd had a good night, but he found it difficult to remember much after the getting involved in a shot drinking competition with a bunch of bored warriors who had way to much time on their hands.

The Council's soldiers hadn't had much to do since his best friend, Tor, had dispatched the Manipulator and brought an end to the traitor's marionettes, the walking corpses he’d created as his own personal army. Sure, no one could claim that the Manipulator's death was anything other than a relief, but it had left a gaping hole in the schedules of those who'd been fighting, and losing, a war for the last fifteen years.

It wouldn't last. They were all waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in the meantime both warrior and trainee alike could fill their time with strangely mundane things; cinema trips, team bonding exercises like paintballing, or getting rat-arsed at Masquerade.

As his stomach churned, Ealair resentfully acknowledged that the ghaisgeach of the Comhairle could drink. And drunk they had. Until his brain had lost the capacity to record events. Or even move, if his current inability to open his eyes or raise his head was anything to go by. Fuck. Maybe he could just lie perfectly still for the rest of the day.

He hoped he hadn't done anything his conscience, otherwise named Tor, would regret. His best friend hadn’t been best pleased when he climbed back aboard the absinthe express after years of sobriety. Turned out a glass or two of champagne at Tor's wedding had been a trigger, though. First stop, wedding toast. Second stop, cuddling up with the Green Fairy.

He suddenly understood why mortal alcoholics couldn't be around booze. Although it wasn't the alcohol itself that Ealair had gotten himself addicted to in the first place. Not exactly. The stuff still impaired his judgement, though.

He supposed that held true for everyone, but he'd made some catastrophic errors in his youth while drunk out of his mind. University had been a time of self-exploration for him; and of being pulled out of bars by Tor before he passed out right where he stood. But he kept drinking, because enough absinthe blurred the blinding auras that stole the actual world from him. He hated the brilliant lights which shone around every living thing, making it so much harder to see physical details. The halos masked the world behind his own multi-coloured kaleidoscope, and every desire and flaw of the people around him danced amongst the colourful shards.

He didn't want to see. The patterns had been bright in his childhood, but they'd grown brighter since. The older he got, the more those aura's shone, shining a spotlight on every regret, guilt, and fury that anyone had ever suffered. Absinthe had been a good anaesthetic for a while, in his teens and early twenties... Until the night with the human bouncer.

Shit. He cringed just thinking about the human he'd punched so hard he broke his eye socket. The guy had been gunning for a fight from the moment Ealair and Tor arrived at Revolvers, a popular club back in their student days. The bouncer feared the fragility of his own masculinity, and over-compensated way too hard. The shit-for-brains saw two well built students as a threat, even though they just wanted to enjoy a night out.

At least, that had been how Ealair interpreted the bouncer’s personal light show, which had been way out of balance. The bright glow had focussed around the guys biceps and groin rather than being evenly distributed around his body, and everything else had been washed out, grey. The guy had been one fucked up piece of mortal muscle, too keen on finding his worth through beds and brawls, his anatomical guns and pea shooter mattering more than any amount of personal growth. Or any growth that didn't involve steroids... And probably some type of penis enlarging pump, such as those offered in unsolicited emails delivered directly to the spam folders of forgotten and disused hotmail accounts.

The creep had thrown around insults as they queued to get into the club, yelling at a colleague to ‘watch the Muscle Marys'. The ‘gay' accusation hadn't bothered ever-sure Tor, who found the whole exchange disdainful, but it had nettled him. Mainly because he'd been so far into the closet at the time that he could see snow, and a lamppost, and maybe even a faun. He'd kept his cool, though, thanks to the calming influence of his best friend. Until he got roaring drunk.

They were the last customers out of the club that night, as had often been the case. Bhampairean didn't need to sleep at 3am, and while mortal owned clubs had reached kick-out time, there were still supernatural owned clubs to frequent. They'd been in no rush to force their way out through a crowd of taxi-seeking humans to reach Masquerade, and had let the horde clear before making their move. On their way out, the bouncer decided Tor posed a threat to his station as Mr Beef E. Brawn. His glare had been withering as it slid up and down Tor's considerable height. And the next time the bouncer opened his mouth, he put his foot right in it.

“Your parents must be so pleased to have you as a son, fucking fag,” he spat.

The ‘fag' comment didn't bother Tor at all. Despite having surprisingly few notches on his bedpost. He'd been sure of his sexuality, and having a blockheaded mortal gainsay it didn’t make a blind bit of difference to him. But even at twenty-three, Tor had still been very much aware of his father's abject disdain and his mother's ridiculous dismay. The grief that flickered in his aura had nothing to do with sexuality, and everything to do with being the second, often-berated, son of Artair of Dubh.

Being drunk, Ealair’s fist had moved before he even realised he wanted to pound the human bouncer into the pavement. Worse, his temper flared so hot that his fangs descended, and he'd snarled at the mortal as if he'd been some hissing undead villain from some wannabe horror author's unpublishable pages. He’d fucked up, in other words.

Tor had been forced to grab both bouncers, to wrestle them into the alley so he could do the bite and blank routine that ensured the neurotoxin in his venom erased the mortals' recent memories. Sure, the homophobe still had a fractured orbital rim he wouldn't be able to explain, but at least he wouldn't be going to the press to report sightings of vampires. Small mercies, and all that.

They hadn't gone on to Masquerade after that. In fact, Tor had insisted on escorting him home. In a silence which felt worse than if he'd lost his cool. He hadn't reprimanded him for breaking a cardinal rule and flashing his fangs at a human. He hadn't even reprimanded him for going Rocky on the blood bag. Instead, he delivered Ealair back to his mother’s house, including helping him onto the garage roof so he could sneak to his bedroom window without his mother seeing his grazed knuckles. Tor had even gone down to the kitchen to get him a jug of water, to ease the hangover he'd otherwise be sure to suffer. Then his friend had plugged in his earphones, cranked up the volume on his MP3 player, and ignored him for the rest of the night.

When dawn came, Tor had slept on his bedroom floor, just as he'd done many times as a boy. He'd still barely said a word, although Ealair knew it wasn't out of spite. Tor had simply been mulling things over; analysing, determining how he could best solve a problem. That was his way. Stay calm. Think. Navigate emotion with the application of reason. It had kept him sane through so much of Artair or Dubh's bullshit, and Ealair had often thought Tor's calm unshakable.

But the next night come around just as it always did, and Tor had gotten up, gotten dressed, then sat on Ealair's bed. His brows pinched over concerned ultramarine eyes before he’d asked, “Did you hit him because he poked my ‘some-parents-are-fucking-arseholes' baggage, or because he poked a hole in your ‘I'm-gay-but-not-gonna-admit-it' closet?”

Ealair had nearly thrown another punch. He’d kicked Tor out of his parent’s house for the first time ever, without answering the question. In fact, it had been the only time he’d yelled at his best friend to ‘fuck off', and his mother had been horrified. So much so he'd even tried explaining the whole situation to her, expecting her to understand why Tor's accusation had pissed him off. Sure, he expected she’ then chide him for risking everything by flashing his sharp-and-pointies at a human, but he genuinely thought she understand his fury at Tor.

Only his mother had given him a reproachful look and demanded, “You go phone that boy right now and invite him back for breakfast. You don't go sending him back to that family of his just because you're not willing to see what we've all known for years. He saved your foolish behind. He's fine with your sexuality even if you aren't, son, and the sooner you learn to accept it, the sooner I'll get to see you with someone who'll make you happy.”

He'd gawked at her for a while, and then he'd phoned Tor. When his friend returned, they sat on opposite sides of his mother's dining table eating post-night-out fry up, just as they had many times before. They'd devoured meals at that table many times since as well, only Ealair stopped drinking, because he didn't want to risk any further stupidity, even though absinthe was the only thing that numbed him to the dazzling lights which only he could see.

Until recently.

His best friend’s wedding had seemed like a good opportunity to give the bottle another go. ‘Just one glass’ of champagne turned into several, then into spirits and mixers, then into straight up shots. Why? because everything had started to change, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He was pleased for Tor and Deòthas, certainly. Tor had achieved what he'd always dreamed in becoming a ghaisgeach. On top of that he had a mate who adored him, and who deserved the rock-steady strength Tor would offer in return for her hard-won trust... Yet at the same time, Ealair felt like his world was crumbling. He'd pottered through life, following Tor's lead because his own mind had been too occupied with not seeing everyone else’s desires to form many of his own. But he couldn't follow Tor to a life of wedded bliss, and even following him past the Taghadairean would be difficult. Which was another concern...

Whatever. If he died during the trials, at least he wouldn't need to bump through life avoiding getting close to anyone, other than his best friend and his mam, because it proved really fucking hard to get on with someone when he could see every blot on their aura. Those halos were like Dorian Gray's fucking painting; they showed every sin and misadventure, no matter how upstanding a person could otherwise look.

The result? Well, it turned out that promiscuity suited Ealair better than finding the partner his mam hoped existed for him. Better to bang a good looking guy in an unfamiliar bed then move on. Then he wouldn't need to sit and stare at the same person day after day, wondering what their lies actually meant, and whether he was the source of their pain, anger, frustration, or worry.

Gods, what a downer he'd turned into. His head hurt as if the thunder god had decided to grind his melon between his hammer and an anvil. And how in ifrinn had a hangover sent him down a rabbit hole of self-recrimination anyway?  He needed to get out of his own head. Maybe through the application of more booze... A lot more booze.

“Wow,” a gravelly voice said behind him, sending him shooting upright as though he'd been electrocuted. “I've never known morning after regrets to be quite so potent. I can smell your resentment from here, which is quite something, considering you were screaming my name twelve hours ago. Don't worry, we both knew this was just a drunken fuck when we took a tumble. Enjoy it for what it was.”

He turned towards the voice's owner, a man he hadn’t even realised still shared the bed. His gaze slid down the length of the sprawling, buck-naked warrior, over every ridge of muscle, and over flesh marked by the tattoos which indicated he'd passed the trials. Ealair's appreciative gaze paused at the warrior's semi-erect manhood, and he wet his lower lip.

He could see why he'd chosen to ignore one of the few rules he'd set himself since joining the Council's training programme; do not sleep with anyone you might need to work with. The guy was his type; blond, toned, but in an ‘I-can-handle-my-body' way that still seemed more nimble than many of the muscle-bound tanks who strode around the compound. His cocky smile said he felt confident in his ability to handle Ealair's body too. Probably already had, in fact.

He had a fairly clean aura too; a calming green-blue that had a hint of Mediterranean sea to it. Refreshing, yet warm; a healer's aura. The power of a ghaisgeach crackled there too, a flickering brighter fire which shimmered around all his edges. Only one or two patches of shadow erased the colour; regrets and guilt for wrongs long since passed. Over all, he seemed to be a good man.

Ealair thought he'd seen the guy before, on the night Tor had his meltdown over his mate's disappearance, and if his memory served then the near-stranger was physician, a profession which suited his aura. What was his name again? Jan? Jaroslav?

“Jäger,” the ghaisgeach answered, either reading his mind or the confusion in his expression. “If I’d realised you were that drunk, I would've put you to bed and let you sleep it off. Can you even remember last night?”

“It's been a long time since I've done shots with anyone. I guess I've turned into a lightweight,” Ealair murmured, avoiding the question as he tried to recall what had gone down, and suspecting it had been himself. Or Jäger. Or both. Even as he thought it, his gaze slid back to the guy's attributes.

“You might want to avoid the Green Fairy in the future, then,” the cute blond physician advised, with only the mildest hint of reproach. “Our newest warrior isn't going to beat my ass for defiling his best friend, right? Only he's built like a brick shit-house and apparently punches like a freight train.”

“Nah. He's used to ignoring what he calls ‘my conquests’.”

Or his ‘bed warmers', if Tor was feeling less complimentary.

“His disapproval is all directed at me, not whoever I end up in bed with.,” Ealair admitted with a self-conscious shrug. “He only ever beat up one of my partners, and then only because the guy jumped on a jealousy train when he realised there'd be no round two; the arsehole spray painted ‘cocksucker’ on the garage door at my mam's, and that was a big no-no for Tor. He accepts my body is no temple, but Ràsbàrd help anyone who dares upset my mam.”

Jäger laughed at that, at least, revealing cute dimples as he grinned. “No disrespecting your mother. Got it.”

“Then you should be good with Tor,” Ealair reassured him, grinning too, despite his still pounding head. “Am I gonna be in trouble with the boss for coming back here? Isn't the castle out of bounds for trainees?”

Laughing, Jäger shrugged, not in the slightest bit concerned.

“You were here after Deòthas ran. You were here for the wedding. I think the ship has sailed with regard to hiding this place from you. If Tancred pulls me up on it...? Well, it was worth it... Even if you can't remember.”

“I'm sure it'll come back to me once the hangover is done with me. In fact, I'm looking forward to the mental replay,” he admitted as his gaze roved over his bed mate again.

Jäger winked as he crossed his arms behind his head, more than willing to let Ealair look his fill. “Mmm, it is worth a watch. You've got some moves, I'll give you that. If I wasn't on duty tonight, I would've given you a refresher. You were pretty adamant last night that I got one round and no more, though. I mean your version of one round contains many more orgasms than I could've predicted, but I got the impression it wouldn't run into a second night.”

“I don't do relationships,” Ealair confirmed, not surprised that he'd laid out the barefaced facts even while drunk. He had developed his operating procedure many, many beds ago.

“Nor do I,” Jäger stated. “Easier not to. I'm more of a booty call kinda guy, as a lot of the non-celibate ghaisgich are. Who'd put up with us long term when our lives are dedicated to the Comhairle, you know? Trust me, you'll fit right in.”

“That's an entry requirement they don't teach us at the training centre,” Ealair laughed, then winced as the pounding in his noggin resumed.

“Come on,” Jäger encouraged, sliding out of bed. “Let's go get you rehydrated. Doctor's orders.”

Ealair had to admit it wasn't a bad idea, even though the idea of putting anything in his stomach made him feel like his guts were going to rise up out of him mouth.
“Well... I can't argue with that. Just being a trainee and all.”

Jäger pulled on joggers and t-shirt, announcing that he'd change into scrubs when he got to the medical suite. Ealair, on the other hand, had to pull on last nights clothes, an act which had long since stopped shaming him. And at least he was donning the black on black jeans and t-shirt combo that had become standard among all members of the Comhairle, so it wasn't obvious he was completing the walk of shame... Except for being at the castle, where trainees had no right being before their trials.

Ah well. Nothing he could do about that now.

He followed Jäger out of his first floor room and down the stairs into the castle's entrance hall, then across to the dining hall where the ghaisgich were busy tucking into breakfast and calling greetings to each other in such an enthusiastic fashion that Ealair thought his head might explode. At least Tor wasn’t present to give him that too knowing look he'd earned to often in the past few weeks, as his friend had returned to the Longhirst facility with Deòthas as they were overseeing training for a while. The bad news? That mean Ealair would have to face him just as soon as he could persuade someone to give him a lift home.

“Water or fruit juice?” the blond bombshell he'd woken up next to offered.
“Start me with water and we'll see how it goes.”

The physician chuckled but nodded. “Head that bad eh? Will I find you some painkillers too?”

Shaking his head, he replied, “No, that's ok. I'm used to the headache, even without the drink.”

Jäger frowned, stilling as he looked him over. “You get headaches a lot? That's unusual for one of us. Have you had brain scans?”

Sinking into a seat, Ealair nodded, thinking of the number of times he'd been through and MRI because his mam or Tor had insisted on it.

“My head's fine. It's my eyes, seeing auras day in, day out, and straining to see what's behind them. My curse, but like I said, I'm used to it.”

Nodding slowly, Jäger offered, “You should talk to Aodh. He has visions. He might have some advice on how to make it easier, or at least  give you some outlet for your frustrations. I'm sure he'd listen if you wanted to talk.”

“Thanks,” he responded, and while he wasn't convinced anyone could help him cope with the constant assault on his retinas, he did feel better for the idea someone might at least listen to him whinge about having a ‘gift' he didn't want with a modicum of real understanding. “I really appreciate that advice.”

Jäger grinned again, then strode off towards the tables where hotplates and baskets had been set up alongside jugs and stacks of crockery.

Ealair closed his eyes, blocking out the too-bright glare coming from the warriors who'd each been blessed with something more, something more vibrant and vital, stronger, the lights in the darkness that seemed an appropriate metaphor for men and women who protected the night-time world. He tried to let the noise flow over and around him, without focussing on what was being said or hollered. All that mattered was getting some fluids down him, and settling his stomach, then he needed to get back to Longhirst.

When a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, he nearly shot out of his skin, taking completely off guard as he focussed on ignoring the world. When he turned, he was horrified to find Tancred, the ghaisgeach chief, waiting beside him. A dark brow arched inquisitively, but the chief's charcoal eyes glinted as though he were more amused that irritated to discover a trainee where he shouldn't be. Yet the amusement wasn’t the first thing Ealair noticed. No, what stood out was the muted tones of the chief's tired aura. The grey tones came not from stains or sin, but from being bone weary. How long Tancred had been falling into a pit of exhaustion?
“I thought I saw you coming in with Jäger last night,” the chief confessed, and Ealair suppressed a flinch, knowing the physician's scent would be  all over him, even those his own sensory overload had kept him from dwelling on that earlier.

“Sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be here...”

“You're not in trouble,” Tancred announced with a wry smile. “In fact, it saves me a journey. I'll just give you this now.”

The chief reached held out an envelope, the thick ivory stationery both watermarked and embossed with the Comhairle logo. While Ealair had seen plenty of Council branded stationery - from the arrival of his acceptance letter confirming he had a place in the training programme, to examination results, to newsletters confirming each semesters schedules - he'd only once seen the heavy weight, linen textured stationery once; the morning Tor found details of his trial date stuffed into his docket at the training facility. The world stilled as his eyes fixed on the envelope which waved back and forth before his eyes as the chief offered it to him.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking bollocks!

A series of expletives ran through Ealair's head and his mouth became suddenly drier, even more so than it had been anyway. Disbelief ricocheted around inside his skull and for a moment he made no move to take the envelope. He could only stare at the thing, as if it were a live grenade with the pin already pulled, which he guessed it was, really; after all, the Taghadairean could bring his life to an abrupt end just as surely as high powered explosives.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking bollocks!

“You've already said that,” Tancred advised, the amusement in his eyes increasing, something Ealair didn’t expect happened often.

And fuck, did I really swear out loud?

“You did, and still are, in fact,” the chief advised. “Now do you want this thing, trainee, or would you prefer I rescheduled to give you more time to consider your application?”

“No!” Ealair burst out, his voice several octaves higher than it had been since puberty.

Tancred considered him, the chief's lips twitching as though he were struggling to hold back laughter. His aura finally brightened, indigo and purple flaring from the tired lilac-grey which said the chief had long become worn down by the strain of his position.

The glow continued to intensify as he asked, “Is that ‘no, you don't want it' or ‘no, don't reschedule it’?”

“No, don't reschedule it. I want it. I just... Tor wouldn't tell me what the outcome of my application was,” he admitted.

He knew, as his current training advisors, that Tor and Deóthas had spoken to Tancred on the matter. Tor had stated, repeatedly, that a final decision lay between Tancred and the Taghadairean, though.

“That would be because he didn't know. I would've told him when I delivered this, but now you can have that duty.” He paused, his lips twitching again. “So are you going to take it? It isn’t going to bite.”

Ealair felt a flush rise up from his collar to stain his cheeks and he finally reached out and took the envelope, the arrival of which he'd both anticipated and dreaded for weeks. Yet he still couldn't bring himself to open it. Instead, he just stared down at his legal name, printed across the front, Ealair MacCoinneach, as if his father retained any claim on him after walking out. He should’ve changed his name to his mam's before making any applications of such a magnitude. Ealair MacLiùsaidh would have suited him better, if anything happened.

“If I fail... Don't put me on that wall with this name. Let me go into the records as Ealair MacLiùsaidh.”

For a moment Tancred didn't answer, and when the chief spoke again, his tone was serious.

“Don't go in their assuming the worst. Go in assuming you have what it takes to come out the other side.”

He nodded, looking up at the chief and promising, “I intend to. But shit happens, you know? And an off day when staring down the Taghadairean... Well, we all know the risks. Having our names carved onto the wall of the fallen is a risk, and I'd rather be remembered as my mam's son than the son of a man who left as soon as he realised I could see the lies clouding the air around him.”

Tancred nodded, head tipped to the side as he appraised him.

“Then I promise you, son of Liùsaidh, you will only be known by that name from now on.”

“Thank you,” he breathed earnestly. “Thank you... That means more than I can say.”
Just then, Jäger returned carrying a tray, upon which sat two plates of fried food as well as two glasses of water and two glasses of orange juice. The physician slid the tray onto the table, then stared at the envelope in Ealair's hand with almost as much shocked trepidation as he'd done himself.

“Torann's hammer... Is that what I think it is?”

As Tancred slipped away, Ealair nodded and slid the envelope into his pocket. There was only one person he wanted to be with when he received his date; Tor had shared his own big reveal, and he wanted to return the favour, because they might be about to run out of time together. They'd been brothers their whole lives, despite being born of different parents, and it was Tor he wanted to ask a favour of that meant so much more than how he'd be remembered if he died.

“I wasn't going to eat... but having had that shock, I think I need something. And that bacon looks really damn good,” he said.

Jäger laughed, pushing one of the plates towards him and confessing, “I thought you might say that. I also asked Nate if he could run you back over to Longhirst once we’re done. He's our tech guy. He’s heading over there anyway to do some upgrades, so I thought it might make it a bit easier for you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ealair answered as he tucked into breakfast, adding around a mouthful of bacon. “And at least I can distract Tor now, from questioning my promiscuity. Trial date trumps chewing my ass.”

“There are better things to do with your ass than chew it,” Jäger quipped, and Ealair found his grin returning despite his pounding headache.